Girl in Profile

by Zillah Bethell

  She hands me a prayer card of Mama Pussy. “If you’re interested.”

  “I’d be honoured.” I grin like a fucking ape.

  Moth

  Rope and the RSPCA

  I shove Ro and Jamie in front of the Wii. They start playing a Harry Potter game, Jamie as Voldemort, of course, and Roan as Dumbledore (bad to his sister – hmmm…). Max kindly offers to help Dove colour her paper tablecloth with felt tips.

  I Google the local RSPCA branch and punch in the numbers. Options: one for wings, two for scales, three for horns kind of thing. My ear is assaulted with canned muzak. Then a robotic voice informs me that the RSPCA relies heavily on public donations for its life-saving work.

  Piss off.

  That hedgehogs like cat food but it gives them diarrhoea.

  Won’t be giving them that then.

  That every year the government is blackmailed by someone with a rabid animal.

  Good.

  That a brimstone butterfly looks like a green leaf.

  Useful to know.

  At last a real person answers. I explain about the foxes.

  “They’re starving, disorientated, possibly injured…”

  “Not a lot we can do about that,” the Right Shit Piece of Crap Arse replies. “It’s not a situation we’re equipped to deal with.”

  What sort of situation are you equipped to deal with – trick or treating? (I remember reading in the National Enquirer that if a paedo is found with a bowl of candy at Halloween he’s carted off to jail. A stick or two of candy in the house is okay, but a bowl by the door and his number’s up.)

  “Foxes are becoming quite obnoxious,” the Right Shit continues. “They rampage through the rubbish, squirt the garden.”

  Squirt?

  “A woman reported a fox sunbathing in her conservatory bold as brass in broad daylight.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Leave well alone. Survival of the fittest, I’m afraid. A badger’ll probably get ’em tonight. Have you tried your local vets?”

  I put the phone down. Jamie is shaking the remote like he’s wanking and Max yells from the dining room like his scar’s boiling with Voldemort’s evility. Dove comes in with a comically shocked look. “He’s coloured it all black. You’re meant to colour the shapes, the mermaids and the unicorns. If you colour it all black you can’t see the shapes.”

  The phone rings. I pick up, praying it’s Drew checking in, but it’s someone wanting to know if I know how much a funeral costs these days and would I like to put away for my own.

  “No.” I spin in my chair. “Right. All of you: out. Go and play in the garden. You too, Ro. Off you go. Out.”

  I Google the local vets, punch in the numbers. One for whiskers, two for claws, three for beaks type of thing. My ear is assaulted by canned muzak. Then a robotic voice informs me that I am in a queue but my call is important to them. At last a real person answers. I explain about the foxes.

  “Have you tried the RSPCA?”

  I breathe so heavily I probably scare the receptionist out of her straighteners.

  “They’re notoriously difficult to pin down.”

  “I gathered that. I was just wondering if I could bring the foxes to you.”

  “Oh no, it’s illegal to transport a wild animal.”

  “Could a vet come and take a look at them?”

  “Oh no, it’s illegal for a vet to come out to a wild animal. A couple of years ago a vet came out to hunt for a lost duck, missed snipping a spaniel. He went on to impregnate ten bitches.”

  The vet?

  “Can I give them some dog food?”

  “Probably just give them diarrhoea.”

  “What can I do for them, then?”

  “Best to leave well alone. Let nature take its course. You just can’t help some animals.”

  I put the phone down. So I’m to leave the foxes to their fate, am I? Maybe Mo was right after all. Best off being shot, put out of their misery.

  I get up, fix some lunch – fluffy cheese on toast à la Annabel Karmel. The smell brings the children drifting in. Jamie’s first, a huge smile on his face. He’s not a bad lad really. “D’you want your medicine now?” I ask gently.

  “Not yet. You did have some rope.” His voice positively shines. “In the shed.”

  Something tiptoes up my spine. Before I was married, a fortune-teller in Porthcawl told me I was a supersensitive. It’s one step away from being a psychic. It means I pick up on things. “Roan,” I shout, dropping a piece of Annabel Karmel. “Where’s Dove?”

  “Here I am, Mummy.” She’s by the outside tap, filling the dog’s bowl. “I’m getting Mr Stinks a drink of water. He doesn’t look very well.”

  I sprint up the garden. Mr Stinks is lying on the ground. Softly whimpering, barely moving.

  Elizabeth

  How’s a Marriage Like a Hurricane?

  Elizabeth.

  Hi, dear friend. Glad to hear back. Sorry for your loss. It’s hard to watch them slip away. I watched my grandad, and in the end the bills were astronomical. I think I had Cardinal baseball drilled in me by accident as I sat with him listening to games at a young age. The greatest Cardinal of all was I think Jack Buck, broadcaster and voice of the Cardinals. We struggled over the weekend. Lost two of three to Pittsburgh – damn the bad luck.

  Our Sunday softball team needs one more win to capture first place. We easily have the best team because the other two captains haven’t got a clue who to pick to win. They pick their cellie or their friend etc. I went after the fastest, the best gloves, bats, and more than anything the best attitude. I picked one guy I’m sorry for, but you can’t be perfect. My idea on how to build a winning team is encourage each other, be positive, not with the ego kind of thing, and work together. There is no I in team. I look for the good in people rather than the worst. I’m a long way from perfect so how can I expect someone else to be? Let’s have fun. If you’re not having fun then there’s no sense in playing.

  Maybe it’s time I do my job as a Christian and share a little with you. The Bible says I can do anything from Him who gives me strength. My cellie got me a sticker we put on the shaving mirror. God loves you but everyone else thinks you’re a jerk. I’ve got another one too. How’s a marriage like a hurricane? First there’s lots of blowing and then you lose the house. I hope that sounds decent.

  Your description of the ballet was really good. I can almost picture some of it. Nature has some super ways to show her beauty, but some like you can describe it. I walked the beach by the Gulf of Mexico one time. It was down on the west side of Florida, south of Tampa by Cape Corral or Fort Myers. It was peaceful. Something about the sound of waves really can bring peace to a weary mind. You have to listen for it, but it’s there. I learnt to swim from a young age, and if I say so myself I was pretty decent. I also loved to dive off diving boards. I’ve had limited experience at much height, but I have dived between forty and forty-five feet. It was on a canoe trip, and man what a rush. Seemed like you could count the seconds before you hit the water. Other canoeists applauded me for my efforts.

  Gwen

  Me

  Being what people expect.

  By fear, following them.

  Resolution.

  No longer to shrink before people.

  Do not let the world overcome you.

  Try to ignore the unkindness of people, the impoliteness of people, want of money, ill health, my sins, pleasures of the world, fear of the world.

  I Attempt to Justify the Choices I’ve Made

  A beautiful life is one perhaps lived in the shadows, but regular, ordered, harmonious.

  Moth

  The Vet’s

  We sit in the waiting room next to an old woman with a ginger cat in a basket. Ro and Dove hold Mr Stinks between them. Roan is silent, his eyes like grass after rain. Dove half prattles, half sobs. “I’ll never stop crying,” she whispers in Mr Stinks’ ear, “if you don’t get better.”

 
; Jamie and Max are looking at gifts sold in aid of (how ironic) the RSPCA. Jamie farts a whoopee cushion incessantly and Max shines a torch at the ginger cat in the basket until the old woman asks me to tell my son to stop doing that please.

  My son. Fuck off.

  “Mr Stinks Dainty?” Thank God. But we really do need to change his name.

  The vet is young with prematurely greying hair in a plait down his back.

  “Why’s he wearing a bobble?” Max whispers.

  I babble the story about the foxes for the third time that day while the vet runs his nail-bitten fingers over Mr Stinks, murmuring, “Poor old lad, what have they done to you?

  “Did the foxes attack him? He’s got a nasty bite on his throat.”

  “I don’t think so. They seemed so weak.” Jamie is smiling, and I notice suddenly that his teeth are very pointed as if he sharpens them daily on something. “I’m not really sure. I suppose it’s not impossible.”

  “He’ll need a tetanus if he’s not up to date. And a couple of stitches. There’s some swelling too. Either his collar’s too tight or someone’s applied a ligature.”

  “What’s a ligature?” asks Dove.

  “A length of rope, possibly.”

  I do not even attempt to meet Jamie’s wildly travelling left eye.

  “I’ll prescribe some anti-inflammatories and painkillers. He’ll probably find it hard to eat for a few days. Poor old lad, what have they done to you? I’m afraid to say that this is the sort of case that almost needs reporting to the RSPCA.”

  You’re fucking kidding me.

  “But as he’s in such good condition apart from that, I think we’ll put it down to misadventure.”

  Half an hour later Roan carries Stitches (as we’re calling him now) out to the car.

  “Job done,” smiles Jamie, his voice positively radiating light. “That’s what my mum always says afterwards. Job done.”

  Afterwards? After what?

  Elizabeth

  Regrets/Shade/Old Apples

  We sit by the picture window, Wendy and I. Light glides in furtively revealing the floorboards at our feet. Peter’s diary on my lap full of the meals he cooked for his wife – the chocolate puddings, the drizzle cakes, banoffee pies, the roast dinners, the steak tartares. All with grades and whether they stained when she threw them up on her clothes. Lists and endless lists – like he got scared of using verbs so he just put down the nouns. The nouns surrounding the verbs. Agitating them.

  Wendy bites into an imaginary apple, opening her mouth wide and clamping down. It’s what ancient Hollywood stars do apparently to prevent jowls and sags. I try tentatively, opening my mouth wide then clamping. Horseshoe, who is mending the rotten fence by the ornamental pond, stares up at us for a moment. What can he see? Two gurning old women in a picture window. At least I have my own teeth and tits. Sometimes Wendy retracts her lips like she’s Snow White being offered a poisoned one.

  “Sometimes I wish I’d never met Eleanor.” The light is glaring at the wrinkles etched into her skin. Too bright. Too bright. Too bright for our weak old eyes. “Since Peter died, I’ve been thinking about her a lot. How in many ways she ruined my life.”

  “Apple bobbing.” I try to distract, innocent as Eve before that fatal scrumping. “Did you ever do it? My late husband had an abiding memory of Halloween. He had a friend round, and his father, Bampa, the blithering idiot, ducked the boy’s head in as a joke. One of his jokes gone too far, and the boy, irate, chased him round the room with an apple.” I laugh at how we laughed at the memory.

  “She bullied me, you see. ‘Oh, Wendy, could you wash up while Rosemary and I entertain the guests? Oh, Wendy, could you walk Bruno? Oh, Wendy, the garden needs a little weeding…’”

  “I think you loved her, and I think in her own way she loved you too.”

  Wendy smiles. The welcome relief of shade. Of grey. Of rain. “Just before she died she opened her eyes and said ‘Dear Wendy’. That must mean something, mustn’t it?”

  “Definitely.” My heart fills the gap between what I think and what I say. How many times did my heart do that? Inflate like a red balloon to fill that cavity, that empty space.

  We bite in unison like two ancient Hollywood stars. But does biting count if you’re doing it to an imaginary object? Is it still an action verb? Fair play to Eve. At least she got a taste of the real thing. What is life after all but the biting of imaginary apples?

  Gwen

  Working

  My delight upon hearing the cock crow as it signals the start of a day spent painting. Without interruption. Just a cup of tea and asparagus quiche and a day spent painting in my room, Edgar purring contentedly in his basket. Oh that my art may become my salvation, my redemption, the transformation of all my sins.

  Girl in Profile

  Spent all day on Girl in Profile, and I asked myself a hundred times did I want the mauve ribbon in her hair. And then in a tremor of agitation I scratched it out. Sometimes I feel I shall go mad. Sometimes I think this solitariness is mere obstinacy.

  Moth

  Monopoly

  I’m sitting playing Monopoly with Dove getting all the pink ones like Pall Mall, when the phone rings. It’s Adam. My heart right hooks my ribs. Is that how the first Adam felt when God made Eve? Hellboy is polishing the brass knocker quite calmly today, though yesterday he kicked the recycling bucket so hard down the street it broke.

  “There’s a photographic exhibition on at Cardiff Museum next week.”

  Dove moves the top hat to green. Takes a five pound. Sensible girl. Going up a level. Drew just buys up all the utilities. Well, he would, wouldn’t he? Pushing the dog with his hammering spirit level hands.

  “I thought Roan might be interested.”

  “Roan’s at school.” As you know.

  “Oh.”

  “But I’d love to come. With Dove.”

  “Shall we say Monday?”

  Hellboy’s polishing the windows now. All the better to see how green the grass is on the other side.

  “Yes.” I put the phone down. Throw a six. Sail my ship up to Mayfair. Out into the blue. The wide blue infinity.

  Elizabeth

  Wendy Dies

  Satie floats in from the Blue Room. Sad, faltering, abruptly stops. I can no longer hear the tick-tock of a melancholy heart. Wendy dies as the tourists leave this seaside resort – just as she wanted. Is it the word I feel when I feel this feeling goodbye? Goodbye, my friend. I hope the light is not too bright.

  “We fully expected her to go,” Nurse Tinkerbell said. “She did well to last so long. And to cheer us up, a talk on cats. If we’re lucky, we’ll have our own ginger tom.”

  Gwen

  Met a Man

  Last night I went to Les Deux Magots. Met a man. We took the train to Meudon. There wasn’t much conversation. He led me into the back of a neglected garden. Pulling down my undergarments he knelt and licked. Then he penetrated me against the trunk of an old oak tree. Looking up at the sky I saw no stars.

  Mon maître. Why hast thou forsaken me?

  Met a Woman

  Last night I went to Les Deux Magots. Met a woman. We took the train to Meudon. There wasn’t much conversation. I led her into the back of the neglected garden. Pulling down her undergarments I knelt and licked. Then I penetrated her with my fingers against the back of the old oak tree. Looking up at the sky I saw the young nun’s eyes.

  Mon maître. Why hast thou forsaken me?

  Met a Man and a Woman

  Last night I went to Les Deux Magots. Met a man and a woman. We took the train to Meudon. There wasn’t much conversation. I led them into the back of the neglected garden. Pulling down their undergarments I knelt and sucked and licked. Then they penetrated me against the back of the old oak tree. I couldn’t look up.

  Oh, mon maître. Why hast thou forsaken me?

  Moth

  Maggie

  Steven’s right. Maggie appears to have no neck. Her head’s pressed again
st her right shoulder like she was some child genius on the violin. On the upside, I guess she can meet he who must not be named’s left eye.

  “Were they good?” she asks hopefully as the kids mill about waiting for the bell. Roan is talking to Jonah. He who must not be named is grappling with Cariad Jones, a freckled and rather corpulent girl from year six.

  “Not bad,” I lie, squeezing Dove’s hand. “You’re looking…” I fumble for the word like a stone in my pocket.

  “Different,” Dove offers.

  “Well. You’re looking well.”

  “The thing is,” her voice lowers to a whisper, “sometimes I wish I was back in hospital.”

  “I can understand that.” Voldemort has thrown Cariad’s coat into a puddle.

  “It was so quiet, so peaceful.”

  And is stamping on it.

  The headmistress, Miss Grimbleby, comes out and yanks him by the ear. “Jamie’s mum?” she calls out.

  I pretend not to hear, and Maggie obviously can’t with her head pressed against her neck, though I notice she makes a hurried bid for the gates, almost bumping into Rhys’ grandad.

  “Not long now for you.” He waves his zebra stick at Dove.

  “No, not long.” I squeeze again, to encourage her of course.

  We walk down the hill with Maggie.

  “Steven wants to try and get back to the States,” she tells us. “They have better facilities there for people like … Jamie.”

  What, like death row?

  “I’ll miss you. If you go.”

  We stand outside the chip shop where her black Mini is parked.

  “The thing is,” her voice lowers to a whisper, “sometimes I wish the tumour would come back. I know it sounds stupid, but it made me feel sort of special. People seemed to worry about me a bit.”